It had been a trial to me that she should be so much better off than I. Not only did it leave the less for me to do for her, but it created in her a spirit of detachment against which I chafed in vain. Out of the common fund of our marriage she made large reserves of herself, as she might have made reserves—which she did not—of her income. Our beings were allied, but they were not fused. For fusion she had too much that she prized to give away. In such quantity as I could give she made return to me; but having so much more than I to give, her reserves became conspicuous. Of what she withheld this room was the symbol. It was never my room. My comings and goings there had been made with a kind of reverence, as if the place were a shrine. The only abiding note of my personality had been my photograph at the head of Vio’s bed. There was a photograph there now, but I saw that the frame was different. Mine had been in a silver frame; this was in red-brown leather. If it was still mine... But it was not mine. It was that of a colonel in an American uniform, wearing British and French decorations. Big, portly, handsome, bluff, with an empty left sleeve, he revealed himself as a hero. He was a hero, while I ... It occurred to me that death was not the only means of giving Vio her freedom, and that I ought to tell her so. To do that I was making my way down-stairs with the words framing themselves on my lips. "Vio," I meant to say, "if you don’t want me back, if anything has happened to make it best for me to go away again forever, you’ve only to say the word and I’ll do it." But while I was still descending she swept into the hall. Her movements were always rapid, with a careless, commanding ease. She was once more the Zuloaga woman all on fire within. "How long do you think it will be, Billy, before your tailor can make you look as you ought to?" I paused where I was, some three steps above her. "It may hardly be worth while to consider that, Vio—" "Oh, but it is," she interrupted. "If we’re going to put this thing through we must do it with some dash. That’s essential." "Why—why the dash?" "Because there’s no other way of doing it. Don’t you see? If you just come in by the back door—" She left this sentiment to continue in her own way. "Alice Mountney is going to give a big dinner and invite all your old friends." My heart sank. "Is that necessary?" "Of course it’s necessary. It isn’t a matter of preference. As far as that goes it will be as hard for me as for you. If I took my own way I should never—" Once more she left me to divine her thought while she added, firmly: "It has simply got to be done. We must make people think—" "What?" I challenged, when she paused, not apparently from lack of words but from fear of using them. A suspicion impelled me to say in addition, "How much did Wolf repeat to you of the story I told him?"